


Somewhere I have never travelled

by teaaru



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-06
Updated: 2020-03-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:08:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23040736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teaaru/pseuds/teaaru
Summary: His body is the only thing that he has of any worth, so he sells it.Or rents it out, more like. But his tenants are rarely so careful.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 31
Kudos: 144





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pensee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pensee/gifts).



I do not know what it is about you that closes  
and opens; only something in me understands

( _e.e. cummings; somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond)_

* * *

Will barely pays any attention to the man hurriedly pulling his clothes on in the corner, focusing instead on counting the crumpled bills in his hand— a difficult endeavor, with his left hanging limply at his side.

“This isn’t enough.” He says, crossing the narrow space and blocking the door. “It’s an extra $500.”

The man sizes him up— he knows he doesn’t look like much, scruffy jeans hanging off his hips, black-blue bruises scattered on his skin— the worst of it on his half-swollen left arm. (It hurts, he knows it does, but he’s always been good at ignoring his body.)

The man steps forward, lips twisted in a scowl— only he doesn’t expect Will to do the same, shoulders squaring off and standing his ground. He flinches away, surprised. He’d been expecting the sweet thing from a while ago; cowering and crying softly, eyes wide with pain. Will's never sweet outside of what they want. 

“You break it, you buy it.” He murmurs quietly. There’s a folding knife in his pocket. He’ll use it if he needs to.

His eyes find the man’s own, and holds them. He doesn’t need to. Usually.

True enough, the man folds like a sack of cards. Reaching for his wallet, he draws out a few more bills and dumps it on the beige motel carpet. “There’s the rest of your money.” He rushes past Will, face twisted with disgust. (For Will or himself? Repression is real.) “Fucking bitch.”

A quick glance at the money on the floor shows that he’s paid off, with an extra twenty as a tip. _How generous._ Will sighs, and kneels down on the carpet, to collect the rest of today’s salary.

“Asshole.”

He’s had better clients. And definitely worse ones.

* * *

He’s always been good with ignoring what his body needs. But it’s only a day later when he can’t even move his left arm without losing his breath from the pain, even though he’s been popping aspirins every other hour.

It’s only when he’s faced with the daunting task of choosing between commuting across the city for the free clinic, and taking a short cab ride to Johns Hopkins that he curses out that last client. Should’ve asked for more than $500.  
  
It’s probably just a hairline fracture. He’ll take the prescription and go. He probably stillhas a sling somewhere back in his apartment.

He’s not even halfway through the commute before he has to get down on the next stop, the bus’ jarring motion worsening the pain.He blindly bumps into someone (spilling their coffee!) without apologizing, barely hearing their affronted reply, before ending up on his knees in the nearest alley.

He lasts all of five seconds trying to hold on to his breakfast before he spews his half digested ramen all over his pavement. _Ah shit_ , he thinks, barely seeing the mess in front of him _, what a waste of food_.

Will’s only consolation is that there’s no one to see him cry a little over his shit…. and of course, that’s when he hears someone speak.

“Are you quite alright?”  
  
His first reaction is to bite out a sarcastic reply— he’s kneeling in a pool of his own vomit, left arm clutched to his chest, _of course he’s quite alright_ — but the voice sounds vaguely familiar and when he turns his head and sees the large brown coffee stain on his overcoat, he realizes who’s asking after his health.  
  
“‘m sorry for—forbumping into you.” he rasps out, tasting his breakfast all over again. He has to wipe the corner of his mouth with his sleeve. Jesus, he’s all kinds of disgusting today. “And— your coat— and spilling— the coffee—“

He wants to offer to pay for his laundry but he’s not even sure if coats like that are put into a machine. Dry cleaning? How much can it cost? 100? 200 Dollars? He can spare maybe 300 dollars this week, but he still has to get himself to a hospital, and—

“Don’t worry about the coffee, or the coat.” The stranger says, walking towards Will and smoothly getting down on his knee. He carefully takes Will’s face into his hands, brushing back his sweaty curls and doing a whole host of assessments in the blink of an eye: palm flat against his forehead to check his temperature, thumbs gently pulling down to look at his pupils, fingers sliding under his neck for his pulse—

He wants to complain that he’s not under the influence of alcohol, drugs or other substances when the stranger starts to speak again.

“I’m surprised you’re able to stay upright—“ He takes a quick glance at where they’re kneeling and quickly revises his statement. “Mostly upright. You’re in severe pain. Due to the possible fracture of your left forearm.”

Will hunches down around his left arm, eyes narrowing up at the stranger. Yes, he’s in a lot of fucking pain, _thanks_. “…Right.”

That doesn't seem to be the answer the man's looking for so he stands and offers will a hand.

“My name is Dr. Hannibal Lecter, an attending physician at Johns Hopkins Hospital.” _Of course, he's a doctor._ “Please allow me to bring you there. My car is parked right outside.”


	2. Chapter 2

your slightest look easily will unclose me

_(e.e.cummings, somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond)_

* * *

“I…” Will swallows down a grimace of pain when he takes the stranger’s— _Dr. Lecter’s_ — proffered hand to help himself stand… before snatching his own hand back, shoulders curling protectively over his injured arm.

Why would this doctor (older, moneyed, _handsome_ ; now that he takes a second away from his pain to _really look_ ) go out of his way to do that? Help some filthy brat he found in an alley (a quick glance down tells him no different: there’s dumpster slush and vomit staining his jeans at the knees, half digested instant ramen mushed under his dirty sneakers), and offer him a ride to a hospital. The hospital where he apparently works in.

Jesus.

He hasn’t even said anything, before Dr. Lecter speaks again.

“Before you refuse the offer, despite medical advice,” There’s a disapproving tone there, not unlike a father chiding his wayward son. Or he’s just reading too much into it. Maybe Lecter’s just a doctor with a bleeding heart.

“…Consider it as a favor to me, instead.”

That stops Will short.

“A favor. To you.” He repeats, as if saying it himself would make it make sense.

Frowning, he turns sharply towards Dr. Lecter, meaning to refuse his offer quite _firmly,_ but he stumbles, bowled over from the pain as his injured arm makes itself known again.

As if he would forget what landed him here in the first place.

In a filthy alley, surrounded by trash and his own vomit, joined by a cajoling stranger.

He sees Lecter open his mouth, presumably to convince or guilt him even further into letting him bring him to the hospital.

“Alright.” He says, briefly looking up at Lecter before looking away.

He’s not above accepting help, freely offered and given. Especially now that he can’t make it to the free clinic, not with this arm. He’ll have time to regret it later, when his debit card gets denied at the hospital… or when Lecter asks him for something he can’t give.

Lecter takes his quiet acquiescence and runs with it; large hands (dry, warm and _capable)_ gently guiding him through the alley and towards the building behind it.

The details fly by him in his haze of pain: a hand painted signage for a fancy cafe, a parking attendant’s frown, a luxurious looking car, _heated_ leather seats—

“I’m dirtying up your car,” he chokes out, coming to himself as Lecter puts the car in drive.He tries to curl up against the car door, away from anything he might ruin. “S-sorry.”

Lecter’s nose twitches in a particular manner, before he tilts his head in what seems to be his version of a normal person’s shrug.

“The car can be cleaned.” There’s a light brush of his fingers on Will’s knee, _reassuring_ , before moving back to the car’s gear shift to move them out of traffic.

 _I offered,_ is what he means, Will thinks. _Your health is more important_.

He swallows thickly and looks away. Anywhere but at _Dr. Hannibal Lecter, attending physician at Johns Hopkins._

He can’t even remember the last time he’s been treated with such kindness. Or touched without being paid for the pleasure of doing so.

So he says the first (and only) thing to come mind.

“Thank you.”

Even without looking, Will can feel the distinct pleasure rolling off of Dr. Lecter.

“You’re quite welcome.” There. A particularly lilt to his words, that tells Will he is smiling.

The rest of the car ride is silent, save for the soft tinkling of a piano filtering in through the radio. It serves as a good enough distraction that he doesn’t even notice that they’ve already pulled up to the hospital’s emergency bay. It’s only when Lecter is undoing Will’s seatbelt that he snaps back into the present, tamping down on the urge to flinch away from his hands.

Dr. Lecter only gives him that pleased look once more, smiling without smiling, before exiting the car. Will only stares at him, rounding over the front end of the vehicle— too late in realizing that he means to _open Will’s door for him_.

He lets himself be led once again, details swimming by him as each step into the hospital somehow manages to compound the pain. (He knows it’s just because— he's being surrounded on all sides by varying levels of stress and sickness. But it doesn’t make it hurt any less.)

By the time Dr. Lecter’s deposited him in curtained off area, he’s a little nauseous again, unable to focus on anything but the pain.

He blinks, and Dr. Lecter’s gone.

“Ha-hannibal?” The name slips out by accident, but he’s— alone, on the hospital bed. There’s an intake form next to him, clearly meant for him to answer but he’s— alone, again. And—

The curtain parts to reveal a tall nurse, and Will swiftly smothers down any disappointment or hurt. Abandonment requires expectation. And—

Is that all it took for him, nowadays? One small act of kindness and he’s tripping all over himself over a stranger.

“Sir?”

Will looks up with wide eyes, cold sweat beading at his forehead. _Please allow me to bring you there_. 

“I, uh—“

The nurse repeats her questions patiently, asking for all of the necessary information before she can begin his treatment. Will answers on rote, dazed but grateful to be focusing on something else. 

William Shannon Graham, Male,March 9 1997, no medical allergies.

“Alright. We just need to to administer a local anesthetic to your left arm before anything else..”

Will blinks and nods slowly, uncurling from where he’s been hunched over to the useless lump of meat his left arm has become.

He has to smother a whimper of pain when the nurse rolls up his sleeve with steady but impersonal hands ( which are not at all like Dr. Lecter’s, _stop it, Graham_ ).

His left arm is nearly unrecognizable: his yellow-green bruises from last night have blackened over time, with his swollen forearm resembling an overripe fruit that someone was too careless with.

Even more telling is the unmistakeable imprint of fingers on the worst of the swelling.

It’s a credit to his nurse that she only (very briefly) looks at him before giving him the anesthetic.

“Dr. Lecter was very specific.” She says slowly, capping the syringe and disposing of it and her gloves. There’s something coloring her words that Will can’t quite place.

He only sees the way she’s looking at him, cataloging his state of dress, the vomit on his breath. She speaks again, her words carefully measured out.

“I was to deliver an anesthetic, before bringing you straight up to radiology for a possible comminuted fracture of the left forearm…”

When the haze of pain slowly clears, he’s able to place the tone in her voice right away. _She’s suspicious_ , he thinks hysterically _, because how can someone know about the fracture with such detail unless they were the ones who caused it—_

“Wow!” he exclaims, drumming up enthusiasm he certainly doesn’t feel. But he knows he’s a passable actor. Glowing reviews from his clients. 10 out of 10, would hurt again. “He must be a great doctor, to know that much.”

The nurse slowly nods, keeping a watchful eye on him as she updates his intake form... So he keeps on talking, adopting the cheerful vacuity of the sorority girl living down the hall from him.

“I was just walking home from uni, yeah? And I dunno, maybe I wasn’t paying attention, we got tests and my grades haven’t been up to snuff…”

He spins the a tall tale of his clumsy self getting into an accident, with some stranger attempting to help but unintentionally pulling on his injured arm: "Felt like my arm was gonna pop right off!" 

But from there on out, he mostly sticks to facts: “So embarrassing, I even spilled Dr. Lecter’s coffee!”

By the time he’s finished, the nurse is carting him off to the radiology and seems more or less satisfied with his story. Or relieved that she's handing him off to someone else before he starts on another story. 

“Ah, Miss—“ He quickly glances at the name tag. “Nurse Clarice. Can you… can you please thank Dr. Lecter for bringing me to the hospital?" He flashes her a toothy, boyish smile. "It was mighty good of him to do it.” 

Some of it is still an affectation of his neighbor, but he means all of it.

This time, the nurse gives him a serene little smile in return before gently guiding inside. The door closes behind him and all noise from the hospital is cut off. Sure that the nurse is gone, he quickly drops his neighbor's energetic smile, face aching from the force of it. Shoulders hunching up, he walks amidst the bizarre looking machines buzzing quietly. 

There’s the radiologist in scrubs and a lab coat, quickly reviewing his intake form before turning to him.

"Mr.Graham."

Will's head swivels around, mouth hanging open at the familiar, though muffled, voice instructing him to stand in front of the x-ray machine. 

Half of his face is hidden by a mask matching his scrubs, but Will can feel Lecter's very _distinct_ pleasure (at his surprise, at his lack of pain, at what he heard Will tell his nurse?) rolling off him in waves.

"...Dr. Lecter!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal wants to see Will's lovely bones himself. You think he'd let anyone else do it?


	3. Chapter 3

_nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals  
the power of your intense fragility_

(e.e. cummings, somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond _)_

* * *

“The x-ray, if you please, Mr. Graham.”

Will only stares at him for a second longer, before shuffling towards the machine. “It’s just Will,” he mutters, holding his arm out at an awkward angle.

Again, he feels Dr. Lecter’s pleasure radiating across the room. He swallows thickly, eyes glued down to the floor. He doesn’t want to look up and see those (warm) brown eyes crinkled at the corners, the slightest hint of a smile hiding underneath his powder blue face mask.

“Will, then.” He suppresses a shudder at the sheer fondness in his tone.

“I would need to roll up your sleeve.” He nearly jumps out of his skin when he feels fingers brush against his left hand. He looks up and Lecter is _there_ , right beside him, instead of behind all the machines. “Will. May I?”

Struck dumb, he nods quietly, gaze stuttering down to where Lecter’s capable fingers are carefully working to bare his arm. Not like the nurse’s. “You’re not wearing gloves.”

Lecter pauses in his movements, one hand still gently encircling his wrist. It’s a solid weight against his skin. “Would you like me to?”

“I—“ His eyes flick up again before looking away and shaking his head. “N-no.” He licks his lips. “I— this is fine.” _I don’t want you to_ , is what he wanted to say.

Will feels feverishly warm in the midst of Lecter’s burning attention. He wants to bask in it, edges just that little bit closer as Dr. Lecter continues to roll up his sleeve. His large hands linger on his bare skin for just a moment, before he lets go of his arm and steps away. 

Will catches sight of a frown on Lecter's lips before he goes back to the machines. 

"We'll start the x-ray now." And just like that, he’s a stranger again. _  
  
_He looks across the room in confusion, but the lights are too bright for him to make out Lecter's face. "But..."

"Mr. Graham." His voice is controlled. Distant. 

It’s a bucket of cold water, dousing any lingering heat from Dr. Lecter’s lingering hands. _Right_. "S-sorry."

He ducks his head in embarrassment before stumbling over another, quieter apology.

 _God_ , Lecter must think him easy. Falling all over himself just for a bit of attention... and that's when he catches sight of arm, under the harsh fluorescent lights.

And he realizes it must be the first time that Lecter's seen the extent of the injury. It looks diseased from the discoloration, like roadkill left to fester on a hot summer's day. It's no wonder Lecter lost all interest. He'd be disgusted too...

 _Or maybe he’s already figured you out. That this is just the outside finally matching what's on the inside_. Foul and festering and unfit for anything else but this.   
  
He takes a soft, steadying breath and lets Dr. Lecter takes a series of images of his arm; turning this way and that, as he's directed. 

. Lecter had been kind first, when he didn’t need to be. Will doesn’t get the right to complain if he suddenly changed his mind.

Afterwards, he’s ushered back in a treatment room, with Lecter paging Nurse Clarice back up to collect him and cast his hand. He gives her a page out of his prescription pad and leaves.

He doesn’t look at Will even once.

* * *

“Three weeks?” He asks, eyes wide.

“Five weeks is more advisable for that kind of injury. But _at least_ three weeks of no strenuous activity. ” The nurse tells him as she updates his intake form. “No exercising, no bike-riding to the university, nothing.”

She stares at him until he nods in acquiescence.

_Three weeks._

“Maybe next time, you can learn to be more careful.” He hides his own flinch, and nods again. _Yes, ma’m_.

It’s not him that needs to be careful. But it’s not like he can tell her that. Besides, the damage to his arm was bought and paid for.

She explains the prescription ( _twice a day for the first week, then once a day for the next three_ ) written in Lecter’s (perfect) handwriting, which he keeps in the back of his mind. His focus is already elsewhere: calculating how much he can stretch his savings to cover rent and groceries— Before remembering the bills of this hospital visit and revises his numbers again.

The nurse leaves to digitize his intake form while the cast is settling. It’s bulky, white, and unsightly. He’s already wondering how he can hide it, so he can still work.

 _If_ he can still work.

He lets out a soft, disbelieving laugh _._ God, he really should have charged more.

He takes stock of the crumpled up bills in his wallet, and ultimately decides to charge the visit to his credit card instead. When the nurse comes back, it’s with his discharge papers and his medicine in a small paper bag stamped with the hospital’s logo.

She hands both to him and tells him that he’s free to go.

“But I— I haven’t paid… yet?” And he was planning to collect his prescription in the generics pharmacy near his apartment.

The nurse only tells him that the bill was already settled for him, and the receipt should be with his medicine. With that, she leaves him to stew in his own confusion, one-handedly rustling open the paper bag.

And true enough, it reads out his treatment: the anesthesia, the x-ray, the cast and the prescription— totaling to $1,834. He has to take a deep breath and release it in increments, to stymie the hysteric laugh that wants to bubble out from him. But he reads further down, and after a long list of co-pay (??) and discounts (???) the amount totals to… $0.

Signed and approved by attending physician, one Dr. Hannibal Lecter.


	4. Chapter 4

_though i have closed myself as fingers,  
you open always petal by petal _

(e.e. cummings, somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond)

* * *

Will leaves the hospital in a trance, letting his feet guide him to the bus stop that will take him home. He doesn’t even notice other passengers giving him a wide berth (sweat stains on his jacket, the clinging scent of vomit, the glazed look in his eyes), distracted as he was by thoughts of the doctor. _Was it just him being kind? His way of apologizing to will? Or was it something else completely…?_

By the time he makes it back to his studio apartment, there’s sweat beading on his forehead as his casted left arm is making itself known again. _Fuck_. It’s been a while since he’s misjudged a client so badly.

He slumps down against his cramped dining table, and upends the paper bag one-handedly. Two orange bottles roll out, the tablets inside plinking against the plastic— and there’s a small card that also falls out, that he didn’t notice before.

He reaches out for it, and the card stock is heavy ( _expensive_ ) in his trembling hand. It’s a personal calling card for one Hannibal Lecter VII, M.D., Ph.D. There’s his mobile number and home address in thin font. He swallows thickly and turns the card over.

_Dearest Will, let me take you out to dinner tomorrow._

_Yours,_

_Hannibal_

He traces the familiar, looping script with trembling fingers. The message is written with a ballpoint pen, perhaps the same ones used for his intake form. Some of the words are smudged, as if they were written in a hurry. He can’t ever imagine Dr. Lecter— with all his poise and elegance— being flustered in any way. But there’s the proof, in his hands and it brings a tremulous smile to his face.

He takes his medicine dry, momentarily struggling with the bottle.

 _Dearest Will_.

The smile on his face grows. He sets about unfreezing a hot pocket in the microwave for dinner, and tidies up his place a little.

 _Yours_ , _Hannibal_.

He can’t keep the smile off his face, even as he’s eating a mostly warm (Still with bits of cold meat) hot pocket. Even as he’s checking the messages on his phone, and sees a reminder from his handler to remit a portion of his earnings for the week.

( His handler, Jacob, isn’t a bad guy, not really. He tries to look out for them, but they all have a job to do. Besides… it _has_ become a little safer ever since he’s joined up with them. Incidents like his last client are less of a daily occurrence. Now, they have _rates_ and _contracts_ like the freelance writer he’s listed down as his legal job. But of course, if the price is right… Anything and everything is still fair game.)

The buoyant feeling stays with him through the evening, considering on calling Dr. Lecter just before he goes to bed. _Yes_. He rehearses under his breath, feeling too warm again.

 _Dinner— would be nice._ He shakes his head, brows furrowing together.

 _Would be lovely?_ Getting there.

 _I_ _’d love to have dinner with you, Hannibal_.

He stops to take off his clothes for a much needed shower, struggling a little with the cast and the sling.

He changes his mind about messaging the good doctor when he catches sight of his reflection in the rusting mirror. Bruises that have yet to fade litter his hips and thighs. Faded scars cut across his back in multiple lines.Small, puckered rounds of flesh dot his stomach, where someone decided that using him as an ashtray was a _fun_ idea. 

There are deep bite marks over his shoulders and chest, mostly healed now after a week. _(Raymond? Randy? Randall?_ had been a good client, even then. Good tipper. Real polite. _)_

 _Dearest_ , he thinks, absentmindedly mapping out the violence littered all over his body. There’s nothing precious about him at all.

He thinks about having to explain, honestly, where his scars and bruises come from. _He’ll probably be disgusted_.

His hand drops to the side, before he starts rummaging around for a big enough plastic bag to wrap around his cast. _Or maybe he’ll ask for a freebie_.

He secures the bag around the cast and steps into the shower. _Maybe I’ll even say yes._

He chokes out a laugh, as he stands under the paltry pressure of his lukewarm shower. _Let’s hope he doesn’t break any bones_ …

He scrubs his hair with a 2-in-1 shampoo-conditioner, grimacing. _Or wait until this one heals up. God knows he can afford it._

He finishes up the rest of his shower, before drying up and making sure that water hadn’t gotten inside his cast.

 _It’s just dinner_ , he thinks, staring at the card long enough that he’s reasonably sure he could accurately forge Lecter’s handwriting.

Just dinner. A free meal. It’s not like he’d be able to work tomorrow night, either.

He’s good enough at pretending for his clients. Maybe he can pretend to be normal for Dr. Lecter… And he surprises himself with how much he _wants_ it.

 _Is it so bad, wanting this for himself?_ He reaches out for his phone. _He’s never been on a date._

Let him have this. _Just this once_.

He carefully thumbs in Dr. Lecter’s number on his screen, making sure he doesn’t have any mistakes _._

_Dr. Lecter, dinner would be great_ _._

_Will_

And before he thinks too much about it, he presses send.

* * *

On the other side of the city, Hannibal’s phone lights up with a much awaited message.

He smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter but heavy to write.


End file.
